


The Hanamura Assignment

by DerRumtreiber, thisDamnWasteland (DerRumtreiber)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Demon!Hanzo, Hunter!McCree, Light Smut, M/M, McHanzo Reverse Bang 2018, Overwatch Recall, Romance, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Van Helsing AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 18:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15824412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerRumtreiber/pseuds/DerRumtreiber, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerRumtreiber/pseuds/thisDamnWasteland
Summary: Jesse Van McCree has been recalled by Overwatch to investigate a series of events threatening to disrupt the balance between the living and the dead. He finds himself back in Hanamura for the first time in a decade, working with the abandoned castle’s demon lord - the head of the now defunct Shimada Clan. Together, they begin to piece together a puzzle that goes deeper than the dead rising from their graves, and find themselves faced with a fight that will reawaken the past and tie them together in the present.~*~*~A voice breaks through the buzzing in his mind and trembling of his body, and he near jumps out of his boots like the green recruit he thought he’d trained out of himself.“Calm yourself, cur,” it hisses into the night, quiet enough that it might be a whisper, except it seems to come not from in front of him, but from the walls of the building around him, and from the stone steps beneath him.It’s the voice that he was expecting, had thought he would never forget, but he realizes memory could never do it justice.“Look up at me,” the voice says. “Andcalmyourself.”





	The Hanamura Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 McHanzo reverse big bang on tumblr. I was paired with the [very talented Shevaara](http://shevaara-art.tumblr.com/), who also came up with the Van Helsing AU concept in the first place.
> 
> [Here's a link to her finished piece over on tumblr](http://shevaara-art.tumblr.com/post/177484916851/ohhhhh-im-s-excited-to-finally-share-my-piece) <\-- GO CHECK THIS BEAUTY OUT
> 
> As this is a Van Helsing AU, I took a whole lot of liberties with history and the supernatural. All mistakes are mine alone, though if you find anything particularly offensive, please let me know!
> 
> I've gone through and edited, but I'm sure I'll be finding mistakes for weeks, so I'll try and fix anything as I catch it in subsequent read-throughs....

Jesse arrives in town just as the sun is setting, dusty and trail worn as he’s rarely felt it before. His boots drag heavy across the cobblestone of the main thoroughfare, eyes taking in as much as they can as he keeps his head down and mouth shut. Not that he has the energy to run it, as it stands.

 

He’s only been this far east once in his travels, broad as they’ve been, to this very same town. Years ago now, and it feels like he can barely remember the man he was back then, though not much has changed here since his departure, it would seem. The stares of the few souls standing outside or peeking through windows follow him as he trudges on, but he doesn’t turn his head to look back.

 

There’s just the one inn in Hanamura, and when he reaches the front door it’s slid open wide, welcoming, to let in what late summer evening breeze might blow through. Jesse could almost say a prayer in relief and exhaustion if he and God were still on speaking terms. A little babbling stream winds its way around the front of the inn, and his spurs jangle too loud on the boards of the bridge as he crosses, drawing the attention of the lone young woman tending the front.

 

“ _A room, please,_ ” Jesse says in stilted Japanese, one of the phrases Genji had made him practice over and over before he left.

 

The woman keeps her composure, though Jesse caught her eyes widen when he walked in, tipped his hat. He must have butchered his pronunciation – Genji had been unable to keep a straight face whenever Jesse tried to parrot back at him. Luckily there’s only so much he could be asking for here, and he puts a handful of coin down on the counter. It is at least local currency – the Vatican had its trade contacts, and no shortage of funds.

 

Glancing down at the money, then back up at Jesse, it’s obvious his welcome here is dubious at best. He’s half expecting out right refusal, but the woman gives him a short bow and says a few words before turning and hurrying towards the back of the inn. She does not come back, and for a few minutes Jesse is thinking he might have to pick his money back up and try his luck with a soft patch of grass back outside the walls of the town. Just as he’s steeling himself to trudge back the way he came, convince his aching feet to keep on moving, he hears the sharp crack of wood on wood, certainly a door being slid shut too quick, and an old greying man strides around the hallway corner and right towards Jesse.

 

Jesse Van McCree is not a small man. He’s tall, he’s found, even back home, and had felt particularly large and awkward the last time he had been around these parts. But the man coming towards him, old as he may be, puts Jesse’s height to shame.

 

“Shiro-san,” Jesse says, bowing with none of the grace he wishes he could instill in it. “I was mighty afraid you wouldn’t still be around this place.”

 

The man, Shiro, narrows his eyes before returning Jesse’s greeting. “Surely you had not assumed I would wilt away in mourning after your leaving us so long ago, Van McCree.”

 

His accent is stronger than McCree recalls, though maybe time has just dulled the edge of memory. Still, it’s the most welcome sound he’s heard in several thousand miles. Shiro must catch something in his expression that belies his relief, and gives Jesse a sly smile.

 

“ _Or perhaps,”_ Shiro asks, switching to impeccable Latin. “ _You’ve finally found a preference for your new master’s tongue_?”

 

Jesse finds a soft laugh bubbles from him before he can hold himself back. “I would be much obliged if we could stick to English. I’ve already frightened away your girl with my Japanese. Best not be scaring you off, too, with my Latin.”

 

“Of course, Van McCree,” Shiro slides behind the counter and counts the coin Jesse put down. “You must forgive my Granddaughter. I believe she was still in her mother’s arms the last time a Cowboy passed through our small town. For how long will we have the honor of hosting you this time?”

_‘What are you doing back here, and when will you leave_ ’ is what Jesse’s pretty sure he means. Their presence the last time had been begrudgingly accepted, and their assistance with a certain local problem had earned them thanks and a place in Shiro’s good graces, but certainly not an open invitation back.

 

“I’m hoping not too long, at least here in Hanamura. Jus’ trying to pick up a trail that’s got itself more than a few odd leads. Not looking for any trouble ‘round these parts, unless you need something from me.”

 

“Hm,” Shiro’s eyes narrow. “I think not, though I will keep the offer in mind. Allow me to show you to your room.”

 

He slides back out from behind the counter, leaving the coin where it lay. McCree adjusts the satchel strapped across his shoulders and wills his muscles back into motion, following gratefully behind.

 

His host calls out towards a room as they pass down the long narrow corridor, and Jesse catches his name in the jumble of words but nothing else. They turn a corner and stop at the farthest door on the end, the soft yellow glow of a lantern flickering behind the rice paper door. Shiro slides the door open and motions McCree in.

 

“If there is anything I can do to aid your journey, please do not hesitate to ask. Kasumi, my Granddaughter, will bring a warm meal to you shortly. And you’ll find the bath through the next door is heated by the springs.”

 

The look Shiro gives him is one that says Jesse should certainly avail himself of that fact, but it’s in good humor. As Jesse passes by into the room, Shiro clasps his shoulder.

 

“It is good to see you once more, old friend,” he says, letting go of Jesse and heading back down the hall before he’s able to respond.

 

Though his body cries out for rest, Jesse knows that the quicker he gets this started, the faster he’ll be able to leave this town where he’s not exactly welcome. And so, after dropping of his gear and giving peacekeeper the proper attention the six-shooter has needed desperately for weeks, he adjusts the brim of his big, black hat on his head and heads to Hanamura proper, the big sprawling estate that was once inhabited by the feudal lords that ruled a land that was undoubtedly many times the size of what the town of Hanamura now was.

 

The grounds of the estate are a good fifteen minute walk from the town, a rocky, overgrown path that threatens to trip him before he can even begin his job, but he reaches his destination with just a few stumbles along the way – Jesse and the dark have become close friends in the years since he’d begun working for overwatch.

 

The castle looms around him, old crumbling stone and splintered wooden pagodas, sprawling across the grounds that top the cliff over the town. It’s exactly as he remembers it, and even in the dark of the cloudy night Jesse can almost picture it like it once was – as if the castle is just sleeping, and everyone in it, waiting for dawn to break and life to go on with the sun.

 

It won’t, of course. No one has lived in Hanamura castle for centuries. Lived being the key word.

 

The last time Jesse was here he’d been fresh from America, Arizona dust still clinging to his spurs. He had just been getting to know the Padre, still taking every word or warning and piece of advice Reyes threw his way about _the Devil’s Children_ as the wild imaginings of a man too long cloistered amongst Catholic tombs and dusty tomes. Father Reyes was hardly the sort of man to be kept locked away in study, and Jesse had assumed the man had gone crazy with it.

 

He had been wrong, then, so very wrong. But that was then, and Jesse Van McCree didn’t make the same mistake twice.

 

The night breeze rustling the wild reeds around him might be as peaceful as confession, but – _listen, close, listen. Hear the difference -_ (he hears the Padre’s voice in his mind even now, even thousands of leagues away) - the slow whisper of wind whistling between the cracked stones sings a different tune. _That’s no song of nature_ , Reyes had said. Reyes had been right.

 

He was too dumb back then to heed warnings, and too ignorant to hear the wind for what it was. Is. Tonight, it whips gently at his hat, and he takes it off, halts before the wide steps that lead into the biggest of the buildings on the compound. His spurs quiet with the stopping of his footfalls, the sound so familiar to him by now he’d barely noticed them adding to the night’s muted symphony.

 

He looks left – a tiny stone alcove – and he looks right – the deep blue silhouette of the great mountain that protects the valley town and the ridge on which the castle sits. He remembers being in awe of that mountain, once, before he’d climbed the Alps and battled through the Urals. It seems almost gentle, now, in comparison, as the clouds part the moon peeks through. Around him, the castle grounds seem to shiver in anticipation for a moment before the light falls over them.

_Now_ , he thinks, though his lips don’t part for words. He wonders if a living voice has echoed off these walls even once in the years since he’s been here, if his words were the last to break the fragile truce the living had with the dead. Nearly half a lifetime ago for him, but for those whose hearts no longer beat what was that? A breath, a blink, maybe.

 

He’s smarter, now, has an ounce of respect to his name, if just. He’s still got a distinct lack of patience, but he hides it better, now, at least. _Now,_ he thinks again. _C’mon, show yourself_.

 

He doubts any spirits are listening to his thoughts. He’s not even convinced most days there’s anyone listening to his prayers, not even when he puts his whole soul into them, so of course he’s not conceited enough to think there’s anyone what cares about the words racing around his head right now. And so he waits, and waits. Waits some more.

 

By the time he finally moves again the moon has sunk below the cover of the mountain. The grey of the false dawn matches the sky to the steps in front of him and dew has gathered at his legs, seeping into his trousers and inching cold fingers down the tops of his boots to his ankles. His joints creak as he finally takes a step back, nearly tripping after so long still.

 

He clears his throat and longs for a pot of hot coffee to oil his voice.

 

“I’ll be back, y’hear?” he says, perhaps to no one. “Tonight. Tomorrow, too, if I got t’.”

 

The breeze died off hours ago, and the air is thick and wet around him now, still and smothering. But as he walks away the ends of his hair tickle at his neck, rustling through no act of Jesse’s own.

 

Perhaps no one, but perhaps someone. Or something.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jesse sleeps through most of the day after returning to the inn, waking at dusk when his muscles start complaining. He stumbles when he finally stands, his legs stiff from disuse after a night stock still and an afternoon abed. It reminds him of the ache of riding horseback for weeks on end across the barren Mongolian steppe, and he gives himself a moment to reminisce on a time before Overwatch, before he sold his soul for the chance to unravel his own secrets.

 

Then he hauls his trousers up over his thighs, pulls a shirt over his head and slips his vest on over that. He spends too much time stretching to fix all the various buckles that belt his supplies to his person, nearly considers going barefoot at the strain of reaching to pull on his boots. When finally he’s presentable, he slides open the door to his room and finds a tray of food and a pot of tea waiting, still warm to the touch.

 

Someone had clearly heard him struggling.

 

When he finally makes it back to the castle, fed and as rested as he’ll get, the sun has already sunk and the moon is creeping high. Nothing has changed in the hours he’s been gone. The wind still rustles at the reeds and the buildings still threaten to crumble down on top of him if he sets foot inside one.

 

Well, if there’s one thing Jesse has always had a taste for, it’s putting his own life in danger.

 

He could wait around again, just stand outside like a fool statue. But he doesn’t think he can take another wake up like this evening, and he feels the urge to _move_ course through his aching body. He wants to run – hard and fast and brutal. But he’ll settle for a more leisurely exploration of the grounds, actually do the job he was sent here to do.

 

If whatever spirits are haunting these grounds don’t care enough to show themselves to him when he’s not causing trouble, then he’s just going to have to cause a little trouble. Just enough to make himself a nuisance, maybe find some other answers while he’s looking. Or, with the way his luck has been going, find himself some more questions.

 

He crosses under the great arch at the front of the main compound, much like he had the previous night. But instead of going straight to the front entrance of the big main building, he heads right. A covered stone walkway winds its way towards the big building, right at the edge of a cliff, and as he wanders the path the breeze begins to pick up. Whether it’s just the regular ol’ wind or something else, he can’t be sure. He picks up his pace all the same, not feeling like being thrown over the edge when he’s barely started.

 

He’s just reached the top of the steps, resigned himself to another night of nothing, when he feels it. The prickling at the back of his neck, goosebumps pebbling the weathered skin, that tells him – well, it tells him he’s certainly not alone anymore.  The wind picks up, and a low buzz rises, picking up pitch and fury until it’s swarming him – _cicadas_ , he thinks – but no. It’s not an actual sound, not vibrating in the dewy air like cicadas would. It’s in his head, and it’s angry.

 

Slowly, so slowly, he turns; His head is down and his hand pushes aside his coat to brush his thumb over the grip of his revolver, but he doesn’t draw. Not yet.

 

His body faces the inside of the compound, now, back to the arching entryway. His muscles are taut, hair on his arms standing up, neck still prickling in anticipation. His heart thumps heavy in his chest in a way it hasn’t in years, the cold fear nearly unfamiliar it’s been so long. Something is playing with him. Someone, maybe. He has an idea who, but now faced with the reality he wonders if time had warped his memory. He might be in for a mess of trouble he hadn’t anticipated.

 

The buzzing has settled in his head, some, now that he recognizes it for what it is – a plague of the mind, not the field. No swarm of locusts to smother crops and over take farms, though it still conjures ideas of thousands of tiny, prickling feet crawling across his skin.

 

He knew he’d probably be unwelcome, but he hadn’t expected to feel quite so _despised_.

 

A voice breaks through the buzzing in his mind and trembling of his body, and he near jumps out of his boots like the green recruit he thought he’d trained out of himself.

 

“Calm yourself, cur,” it hisses into the night, quiet enough that it might be a whisper, except it seems to come not from in front of him, but from the walls of the building around him, and from the stone steps beneath him.

 

It’s the voice that he was expecting, had thought he would never forget, but he realizes memory could never do it justice.

 

“Look up at me,” the voice says. “And _calm_ yourself.”

 

He’s been growling, Jesse realizes. A rumble of threat from his own throat, an unbidden response to the threat his hind-brain has perceived around him.

 

He stops himself, but just barely, more shaken now by his body responding without his mind’s command than at the situation he’s found himself in. It is, after all, exactly the situation he had been looking for. He looks up, chin tilting just enough that he can peer out from under the brim of his hat, and his breath catches a little in his throat.

 

He’s seen this man – _demon_ , his mind supplies, unbidden – before. They had met, in a way, that last trip, all those year ago. He had, in fact, been exactly who Jesse had been looking for when he had come this way, decided to start here in Hanamura. Yet even as their eyes meet across the short expanse between them, his voice catches in his throat, frozen.

 

All at once he feels the castle as it must have been eons ago, the slow bustle of life as servants rose for morning chores, the chorus of chickens and goats waiting to be fed. He can feel the warmth of the sun creeping through the windows to fall across his face and the slow awakening of a peaceful morning exactly like the morning before, and the morning before that and back and back like he’s awoken here each morning of his life. He feels it settle into his bones and chase away the angry cicada-buzz, the aches of travel and the worries of his mission. He feels, for one very brief moment, like he _belongs_.

 

And just as suddenly as it had come on, it’s gone. He’s left with nothing, even the humming anger that had drawn the growl from his throat ceases. He is empty, and the night is over but the morning has not yet begun, just the dark, dark, deep black of the nothing twilight surrounds him. He holds the gaze of the creature before him because it feels like if he looks away he’ll disappear, too.

 

Jesse likes to pride himself on expecting the unexpected, but he’s never before felt so thoroughly that something is _wrong_.

 

“That’s quite the welcome, friend,” Jesse says, forcing the words out on half a breath, teeth clenching so hard he nearly bites through the cigar he’s been chewing at, the second of the night; it feels like someone is sitting on his chest.

 

“Hmm,” the demon answers him, and again Jesse hears it all around him. “You are neither welcome, nor a friend.”

 

“Well, maybe friend’s a strong word there, partner. But I don’t recon I’ve given you any reason to go feeling me up with all that skin crawlin’ hoodoo, neither. You might not recall, I suppose, but I’m right sure last time we met we worked together pretty well.”

 

It’s the most Jesse’s said to anyone in two full days, and his voice cracks a little from disuse and the strain of the feral aura around him.

 

There is a moment’s pause, enough time for Jesse to finally contain his nerves, curtail the instinctual fear reaction that the demon was trying so hard to drown him in. He manages to draw his eyes away from the unearthly ice-white glow of the demon’s gaze to take a good, hard look at just who he’s dealing with – to see how well his memory had held on to his form.

 

His memory – well, it’s both what he was expecting and so much more. He remembers, when they first met all those years ago, being overwhelmed by just how _alive_ Hanzo had felt. Not in the normal way, not like the Padre, not the kind of alive you feel when you put your hand on another human – the _thump thump_ of a heartbeat that your own’ll try and match – or the kind of alive when you wake up in the middle of the night and hear the off-kilter snores coming from the bedroll next to you, at odds with the whispers of the night.

 

No, Hanzo had felt alive like the world around Jesse was alive. Like the chirping of the crickets and the whistling of the wind, like the heat of noon in the desert, or the cold of night in a cramped mountain shelter. He’d felt alive in a way that no living body could control, like he was a part of Hanamura.

 

And he still does, in a way, Jesse thinks as he forces his eyes to not look away in instinctual fear. But now it feels corrupted. When Jesse thinks alive, he thinks natural. The anger that is billowing out and forcing in around him from the demon in front of him is anything but natural. If he had been unsure of whether he’d find anything in Hanamura before, he is no longer. He is absolutely convinced that something is very much not right, here. And he is also very sure that whatever it is, it’s going to fight him every step of the way if he tries to put it to rights.

 

He remembers the cool blue tint of Hanzo’s skin, the dark eyes and delicate features that belie the body language of a warrior. He was, of course, a warrior, once. But, though he’d never come out and told Jesse (not that he’d told Jesse much of anything), it’s obvious he is high born and well-bred. Jesse doesn’t need any history book to tell him that Hanzo is master of this castle, even in this strange in-between state of agitated _oni._ Whatever Hanzo feels, the castle sings to answer.

 

He remembers the well-tailored yukata, the wide brimmed straw hat that, were he still human, would surely hide his face in shadow. But the moonlight glints off of him like he’s made from crystal, and his eyes threaten to draw Jesse in and not let go, to sweep him off this mortal coil and deep into the underworld he’s been fighting so hard against for nearly as long as he can remember.

 

To say Jesse feels inadequate, standing here in his duster and boots, his trusty fedora, like an out of place European cowboy, would be an understatement. It’s clear that the demon he is facing is thinking much the same.

 

“Leave this place, Hunter. And do not return,” Hanzo growls, and well – Jesse figures he’s completed his first mission of the trip, he’s made contact.

 

So he leaves, but he sure as hell is hot isn’t going to just head on back home.

 

~*~*~*~

He returns earlier the next night – the sun still low in the sky, and the grounds of the castle feel like an entirely different place. The nooks and corridors that had seemed at every turn might be hiding something now seem innocent and unassuming. He walks softly, listening for any warnings that his presence is unwelcome, but all he hears is the soft rustling of the grass under his feet, the chirping of birds, very much alive and natural. He wonders where they go at night, if they roost in the haunted trees of the castle or if they leave when the sun dips and the castles less living inhabitants come out to play.

 

The past nights he hadn’t traveled too deep into any of the buildings, but there is something in here that doesn’t belong, something that has caused this change in both the castle and it’s demon master. And so he makes his way across the same stone bridge he’d crossed the night before and into the upper entrance of the big main structure. He walks up another set of steps, wooden this time, and down another. Twists and turns and knows that he’ll be lucky to find his way back out if night falls before he’s done.

 

Deep inside, past a big open dojo, in a back room he feels the air around him shift. It’s dark, and there are no windows, but Jesse knows that outside the sun is still burning in the sky. Still, it feels like he’s stepped right into the dead of a night that never abates. He pulls his lighter from a pocket and flicks it to life, the little flame just enough that he can see in front of him. Keeping on hand on the wall, he feels his way forward until he nearly bumps into an old hanging lantern, the stub of a candle mired deep in it’s old melted wax base. He lights what’s left of the short wick and hopes it’s enough to find whatever may be hiding in the room. Or whoever.

 

Jesse sure hopes it’s not a whoever.

 

He unhooks the lantern from it’s chain and holds in front of him, and it’s more light than his tiny flame, but not by much. He walks forward more on instinct than anything else, his eyes straining in the low light, his ears listening for – for nothing. There is no sound in here but the sounds his own human body is making, and they echo too loud in his head. Whatever is at work here is pressing in on him, even more aggressively than Hanzo’s hot, projected anger.

 

If he hadn’t stumbled over the broken slat in the ground – literally – he never would have found it. Jesse curses, then winces as his voice seems to echo endlessly into the black ether around him. He kneels down, sets the lantern by his knee, and examines the ground.

 

The floor around him is perfect, the craftmanship unparalleled, everywhere he can see except for the slip of wood barely out of place by his boot. He pulls a knife from his belt and sticks it as deep as he can into the crack. The wood is held so tightly, time and moisture warping even the best crafted slats, that it’s squeezed tight. Whoever had pried this one slat up had worked hard at it, and had trouble getting it back into place.

 

He puts his full weight against the grip of his knife, and for a moment he’s afraid the blade will snap before the wood he is prying up. But it gives a wet, angry creak before half of the tiny slat breaks off. He tosses it aside and digs the knife in again, deeper this time, and pries. Piece by piece, Jesse pulls up a hand’s width of flooring. At the edges, sneaking under the rest of the wood the floor is packed hard, but in the middle, right under that first crack, it’s soft and loose enough that Jesse can dig. Soft enough that he knows someone did the same not too long before him.

 

His knife carves carefully into the earth, cautious so as to not stab right through whatever might be buried. Maybe it can be destroyed, but maybe he’ll just end up killing himself if he pokes whatever it is too hard and it pokes right back. Jesse’d really rather avoid that if he can.

 

What he pulls up, finally, is a small book, no larger than his palm. It’s cover is hard leather, the pages inside thick, hand-cut parchment with ragged edges. Some sort of metal binds it all together on one edge, most likely silver, though Jesse is going to have to give it some proper inspection out side of this damned room before he can tell for sure. He’s more than a little wary of shoving it in his pocket and bringing it back to the inn, but he doesn’t have much choice in the matter – the last thing he wants to do is get caught by Hanamura’s resident oni defacing property in his own rooms.

 

So Jesse slips the book into his pocket, repacks the earth and places as much of the flooring back as he can. It’s fairly useless, but he hope the intention will go a little ways, at least. He hadn’t _wanted_ to destroy anything, after all. Then, as quick and as quiet as he can, he sneaks his way back out of the room, blowing out the lantern and leaving it outside the door on his way. The sun is near to setting as he reaches the fresh air outside, and this time he doesn’t linger to see if Hanzo comes out to meet him. They’ll have time for that later. Right now he needs to figure out what it is he’s just got his hands on.

The first thing he does when he gets back to the inn is pull out his own journal and ink pen. It takes him a full two hours, and his hand is stained and cramping, but he copies down each and every word, every drawing, as best he can in his notes. The pictures, in particular, are crude and messy, but he’s got a sinking suspicion the book is going to have be destroyed before his job in Hanamura can be considered done. How it’s going to be destroyed, he isn’t yet sure.

 

Then he eats the dinner that someone blessedly placed outside his door while he was working away, bathes in the tiny pool of the spring just outside, and falls onto the futon he hadn’t bothered to put away that morning. He thinks probably the innkeepers daughter normally takes care of that for guests, but he seems to be a special case. It’s certainly for the best.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 “You have something that does not belong to you.”

 

Jesse wakes with a start, the words soft from across the room. Had it been a human voice he doesn’t think he’d have heard it at all, and he assuredly wouldn’t have woken up. He feels cool metal against his palm and looks down to see his hand wrapped around the grip of his pistol. He’d grabbed it from under his pillow without even thinking. Fat lot of good those instincts are going to do him against a demon.

 

He forces himself to relax, breathes in deeply and out slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dark of the room.

 

“Mornin’,” he says. “Don’t remember requesting a wake up from the front.”

 

Hanzo is little more than a shadow in the corner, even as Jesse’s eyes adjust, but he feels the air around him shift. He shivers, a little, suddenly very aware of how little he’s wearing at the moment, how little protection the sheet over his waist is going to afford him.

 

“I have little patience for your jests, Van McCree. Return what you have taken.”

 

“Jesse.”

 

Hanzo scowls at him. “What?”

 

“Jesse,” He responds. “Might use a man’s first name if you’re gonna show up at the foot of his bed in the dark, makin’ demands of him.”

 

Jesse’s been told a time or ten that his mouth works faster than his brain. It’s gotten him in trouble, before, but it’s never outright got him killed. He prays his luck holds, because the bullets in his six-shooter may be pure silver, but as far as he knows there isn’t a piece in existence that’ll blow a hole through a demon. The rest of his gear is folded neatly (uselessly) on the ground a lot closer to Hanzo than it is to his own hand.

 

There’s a beat of silence where Jesse is far too aware of the hard thumping of his heart in his chest before he hears the shift of fabric, sees the dark shadow grow taller, then move forward, into the pale light that shines in through the window. It shouldn’t be enough to illuminate anything, but where it falls across Hanzo’s bare chest he seems to almost glow.

 

“Hn. You are not the brightest man I’ve had the displeasure of encountering,” Hanzo responds, finally, towering over Jesse at the edge of the futon; Jesse can see his fists clenching, as if he’s trying to hold something back, the play of the muscle up his arm making the red dragon appear to move. “Do you truly wish to face the consequences of thievery, _Cowboy_?”

_Yes_ , Jesse thinks, instantly, stupidly. He feels a rush of – of something, electric and dangerous unfurl in his gut and immediately tamps it down.

 

“I took something, sure, but it didn’t belong in Hanamura. I ain’t no thief,” he says, instead, trying not to let his eyes play too long on the man – creature, _demon_ – in front of him.

 

The chill that had settled immediately returns, stronger, and Jesse can see the edges of Hanzo’s body shimmer, like he might disappear in his anger.

 

“That is not for you to decide, Van McCree,” Hanzo growls, _literally growls_ , and it takes every ounce of Jesse’s training to not just give in and cower.

 

“Listen, calm down for a second, Shimada-san. I’ll show you, alright?” Jesse pushes the sheet off him, all to aware of his nudity in the frigid room, and slides off the futon to stand.

 

He walks past Hanzo, who makes no move to stop him, makes no move at all, as a matter of fact, and creeps as slowly as he can over to his pile of clothing. He pulls his pants out of the pile first – priorities, after all; if this ends up with Jesse dying he doesn’t intend to die without his britches – tugs them on and then reaches for his jacket. He pulls the little book he’d found out of the inside pocket.

 

“I’m gonna light the lamp, alright?” he says, moving next to the small table by the window. “Some of us don’t see quite as well in the dark.”

 

Jesse half expects that when the light fills the room he won’t see Hanzo at all. It’s a silly idea; he’s met demons before and knows how they work. But something about finally seeing him in man-made light seems wrong, as if Hanzo should exist only under the glow of the moon. But when he turns, Hanzo is still there, exactly where Jesse had nearly brushed him on his way past, right at the foot of the bed, staring at the wall.

 

He wants to take the chance to look his fill, but something feels off.

 

“Uh, Hanzo?” he asks, gently, afraid of what might happen if he startles the demon. He doesn’t exactly want to have to write back home and ask for funds to rebuild an entire inn.

 

Hanzo’s head turns, slowly, too slowly, and he looks Jesse straight in the eyes.

 

“You called me Shimada, before.”

 

Jesse cocks his head to the side. “It’s your name, ain’t it?”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrow. “It is. It was. But how could you know that?”

 

There’s probably more than one way Jesse could have found the name Shimada. He doesn’t know if the people of the village remember – it’s been a long, long time, and histories get muddied with time. But it’s certainly in some history somewhere. The Shimada clan wasn’t large, but Jesse’s pretty damn sure they were powerful.

 

He answers honestly. “You told me. When we met, nigh on ten years ago now.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t look like he believes a word that is coming out of Jesse’s mouth, but Jesse doesn’t really know how to prove anything to him.

 

“I can’t force you to believe me, I suppose, but I ain’t lyin’. Do you not remember us meeting? You remembered my name,” he points out, and for the first time Jesse can remember, Hanzo looks unsure of himself.

 

“I-“ Hanzo starts, then pauses, and shakes his head, not like he’s trying to say no, but like he’s trying to loosen some binding that is holding him down, that he can almost, almost shake off. “I have a vague recollection. It feels as if we’ve met, but I cannot recall a tangible moment. Time doesn’t- I do not experience the passage of time in the same way as you, Van McCree. Even so, this feels… unusual.”

 

Jesse was hardly expecting so much honesty, but he’s not stupid enough to think it’s because Hanzo trusts him.

 

Like the changing of the winds, Hanzo moment of uncertainty passes. Jesse can practically see his guards going back up, the change in the demon’s posture, the steel in his eyes.

 

“It matters little whether we have met or not, previously. You still have something that does not belong to you. I will give you one chance to return it, Van McCree. If I must return, you will not be the only one to regret it.”

 

The light of the lantern flickers, burns hot and bright and lights up the entire room for a moment in the intensity of Hanzo’s freshly returned anger, before it blows out altogether. The few seconds it takes for Jesse’s eyes to readjust to the dark are enough for Hanzo to make his departure, though Jesse doesn’t need to see to know he’s gone. He can feel it. Empty, alone.

 

He falls back onto the futon with a huff of frustration, not even bothering to undress again. He wonders if the others at the inn had felt Hanzo’s presents – wonders how they _couldn’t_ have felt it. And he wonders why Hanzo hadn’t simply taken the book himself. If it even matters why. The threat had been real – either Jesse goes back tomorrow night with the book, or he isn’t the only one who will suffer Hanzo’s wrath.

 

He doesn’t intend to let that happen, but he doesn’t intend to just put the book back where it was and call the job done, either. There was something disturbingly off about the oni, and even if Jesse hadn’t thought it was related to his mission, he wouldn’t be able to just leave it be. He hadn’t become close to Hanzo that last trip, not by any means. But there was something about him that had stuck with Jesse, something that made sure Jesse never truly forgot about him. Perhaps because it was his first mission with Blackwatch and the Padre, but Jesse feels like it goes deeper than that. Whatever is ailing the demon and his castle, Jesse wants to fix it, for his own selfish, unfounded reasons more than because it’s his job.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

Jesse doesn’t bother going back by light of day, as he had when he was searching before. He waits until the moon has risen. He grabs his hat, his duster and peacekeeper. The book is stashed safely in the pocket inside his coat. He treks up the treacherous little path to the castle, under the big pagoda-like awnings and archways, straight up to the middle of the estate. Right where he met Hanzo a few nights ago, lights his cigar and waits.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll have to wait long this time, and he’s right.

 

Jesse blinks, and he is alone. He blinks again, and he is not.

 

Hanzo is just a few steps in front of him. Close enough that Jesse could reach out and touch him, were he a braver man. Hanzo reaches out his open hand, eyes locked with Jesse’s, and Jesse shivers. It’s obvious what the oni wants. Jesse reaches into his duster and pulls the book free, holds it out. He doesn’t intend to let it go, though the edge brushes the tips of Hanzo’s fingers.

 

When Jesse makes no further move to place the book in Hanzo’s hand, Hanzo growls. Not like the displeased growl of the night before, but something feral. The sound reverberates from the top of Jesse’s head, right down his spine and through his arms and legs to his fingers and toes. It makes him shiver, makes the world around him go a little blurry as his eyes water.

 

If Hanzo wants the book, he’s going to have to take it. And he’s going to have to take Jesse down along the way.

 

Hanzo, of course, is far from stupid. He can see what Jesse’s getting at without Jesse having to utter a single word, and Jesse is pretty sure he’s about to have to fight for his life. But Hanzo doesn’t try to grab the book at all.

 

Jesse has a split second to react when Hanzo reaches out, and normally it would be enough, but his feet feel stuck to the ground, his muscles like lead. He wants to jerk away. He wants to run. All his built up courage and tenacity flee from him. When Hanzo grabs Jesse’s wrist, his hand burns where they touch and Jesse can see a flicker of something in Hanzo’s gaze, like he can see what Jesse is thinking and disapproves of the fear.

 

Then, Jesse is no longer Jesse. It’s no longer night, and he’s no longer in the courtyard with Hanzo – except –

 

Except he is in the courtyard. And he’s no longer with Hanzo, because he _is_ Hanzo.

 

The sun blazes overhead, and the castle bustles with life. He tries to look down at his body, Hanzo’s body, but it seems he has no control. He’s along for the ride, and no matter how he struggles with his own thoughts, he is unable to move of his own freewill. Even as Hanzo moves forward, tattooed arm reaching out enough that Jesse can see it through Hanzo’s eyes, Jesse feels the terrifying grip of paralysis. Hanzo can move, but Jesse cannot.

 

He realizes, then, that everything he is about to see has already happened, and he knows with absolute certainty there’s nothing he can do to change the outcome.

 

“ _Brother!”_ Jesse hears from across the courtyard, and when Hanzo looks up Jesse is greeted with a face, young, grinning ( _familiar,_ Jesse thinks. _Why do I know that face?_ ). “ _Brother, you’ve been looking for me?”_

 

The words have a strange cadence to them, a lilt and intensity he is unused to, but he understands them all the same. Hanzo speaks Japanese, and so, in his body and his mind, Jesse can understand as well, without the awkward pause of translation he’s become accustomed to in his few short days in Hanamura.

 

“ _Hm_ ,” Hanzo says, and the sound bubbles strangely in his throat – Jesse didn’t make that sound, but he can feel it reverberating all the same – the voice strange to his ( _Hanzo’s. His-)_ ears through the filter of his skull. “ _Yes. Follow me. There’s not time for your usual day’s folly.”_

 

Hanzo’s brother walks towards them, and for a brief, agonizing moment Jesse feels anguish well up inside him, unbidden, before it’s quashed back and Jesse feels nothing again. _He’s sad,_ Jesse thinks. S _o damn sad, and trying to hide it from even himself._ There’s no time to think about why, though, because Hanzo is turning his back on his brother and striding away. His hand reaches to his waist and curls tightly around a wooden hilt, wrapped tight in thin linen, worn soft and right by the hand holding it. Jesse knows that if Hanzo pulls the weapon from it’s sheath it’ll feel as natural as taking a breath, it will feel like a part of him. It will feel like Peacekeeper, the way the revolver has become a part of Jesse’s own person over the years.

 

He hears no footsteps behind him, but he barely hears Hanzo’s beneath his own feet, and it stands to reason that Hanzo’s brother would be nearly as adept, silent, controlled as Hanzo himself. Despite that, Jesse is sure Hanzo’s brother is following, because _Hanzo_ is sure of it. Together, two Shimada’s and Jesse along for the ride, they walk up a set of steps that Jesse recognizes even without the aide of Hanzo’s knowledge. They step under an awning and into the dojo, the same one Jesse had found Moira’s relic hidden in just the other night, but it’s not the crumbling, time worn room Jesse has come to expect.

 

In the light of day, in the era of it’s prime, the dojo glistens. Time had eroded the carved wooden columns and railings of Jesse’s present, but here and now they are clean, sharp and new. Burnished red hardwood and delicate, understated gold leaf that show off the mark of a true craftsman and the immense wealth it must have taken to have it all constructed. Hanzo slips out of his sandals and the ground is near frictionless under his socks, the faint smell of polish familiar and comforting to Hanzo, and so also to Jesse.

 

It’s not enough, though, to offset whatever is bothering Hanzo. In fact, the familiarity of the room seems to make it worse. He feels Hanzo’s control slip, just a bit. Jesse can’t fully see whatever it is that Hanzo is remembering, not like he’s living this memory. It’s just fragments of a thousand mornings, flashes of his brother, his father, of Hanzo alone, the warmth of sweat and exertion and an overwhelmingly satisfying feeling of pure exhaustion. The other Shimada comes to stand next to them and the trance of memory is broken. Jesse again feels nothing, sees nothing but the room in front of them as it is.

 

“ _Hanzo?”_ his brother asks, tentative, as unsure as Jesse, it seems. “ _Is everything alright?”_

 

Hanzo shakes his head, searching for words. Jesse can feel that he wants to tell his brother something, and at the same time wants to say nothing at all. He wants to make the world stand still so that whatever must happen next never does.

 

“ _No,”_ Hanzo says, finally, and strides farther into the dojo, into the middle, his brother following slowly. “ _I’m sorry, Genji.”_

_Genji_. That’s where he knows that face. He knows Genji, Jesse’s best friend Genji, and he knows that somehow, they are one and the same. _How?_

 

“ _Brother?”_ Genji asks, again.

 

Hanzo’s hand, Jesse realizes, has never left the grip of the sword at his side. His fist tightens, thumb pushing just so, and with barely a shift of his wrist the blade slides free of the sheath.

_No,_ Jesse thinks. _No,_ Hanzo echoes in his own head. He doesn’t want to do this. He can’t do this.

_Can’t do what?_ Jesse thinks, desperate. _Can’t do what? Not that; it can’t be that. Please, not that._

 

Jesse wants to shut his eyes, but they belong to Hanzo, and even if Hanzo could do this with his eyes closed, he never would. He owes his brother that much honor, at least.

 

Hanzo turns to face his brother, and Jesse sees the recognition dawn in Genji’s eyes. They first widen in shock, and then there is resignation, as if Genji had almost been expecting it. Genji’s hand goes to the katana at his own waist. He won’t go down without a fight, but Jesse knows already he won’t win. He thinks Genji probably knows that, too. Hanzo knows, and is hoping he’s wrong, that his brother has learned more than he has shown over the years.

 

Jesse doesn’t want to watch. _Please, please. If you have to do it, please don’t make me watch. Don’t do it, don’t do it-_

 

His vision blurs, goes dark around the edges, then further, further until it’s all dark and Jesse feels pounding in his head, throbbing in time with his heart. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, whether he is still in Hanzo’s head or back in his own. Vision edges back in slowly, and when Jesse can finally see everything again he’s still unable to control anything, still a part of Hanzo, but no longer in the dojo.

 

The sun is beginning to set, and at first he thinks that’s what’s tinting everything red. Then Hanzo looks down at his feet and Jesse sees the blood. It’s dripping, from his head maybe, from his hands. His clothes are stained with it, his socked feet squelching with every step. He feels it now, tricking down his face, the back of his neck, off the tips of his fingers. _There’s so much._

_It’s not all Hanzo’s._

 

They aren’t alone, nor, Jesse thinks, are they even within the castle grounds any longer. He’s at the front of a group of other men. More than just a handful, judging by the marching beat of steps next to and behind him. An army. He is marching with an army. The sun is setting, Hanzo is marching off to battle, and he has just killed his own brother. He feels nothing because he wants to feel nothing, but unlike the forced stoicism of earlier the emptiness is its own prison of anguish.

 

Hanzo’s memories within this memory are his own – Jesse has no notion of what had happened the years, months, days before. He is aware of Hanzo’s immediate thoughts only, crashing against Jesse’s as he tries to make sense of being himself and being someone else at the same time. Still, it feels like the things that Hanzo _knows_ Jesse knows as well. When he takes a moment to calm himself, he knows they are heading for a war camp, they are heading for the forces of Imagawa Yoshimoto. He knows that the Shimada’s are in service to Oda Nobunaga. He knows the names of the provinces they pass through, and the men marching at arms beside Hanzo, and though they should seem foreign, should mean nothing to Jesse, he _knows_ them.

 

Just like he knows, when the first crack of lightning and rumble of thunder pass over head, it is no normal storm. Hanzo’s façade is cracking with every step, and though his face remains stoney and unchanging, the storm of agony that brews within his breast brews above and around them as well.

 

They are marching into an unwinnable battle, not from the front, but from behind. They are flanking, and the storm is covering their approach. All the same, Jesse knows what is about to happen. Whether they win or lose, Hanzo does not intend to survive.

 

_Curse,_ his mind supplies, Hanzo’s mind supplies. _This is the curse. Curse. Curse._

 

Not the book’s curse, of course. It may be able to control a demon and his territory, but it can’t change the past.

 

_The Shimada Curse_ , Hanzo’s mind says. _I have killed my brother, just as they said I would. It will go no further than this._

 

Jesse can’t let that happen. He can’t. Even as he still knows it’s a memory, he fights. Willing his conscious to overcome Hanzo’s. To interact, in some way, any way.

 

They keep marching, and the skies open. A fission of electricity tingles at Hanzo’s fingertips and spreads up his arm. It hurts, and Jesse wants to cry out, but Hanzo makes no sound. He has felt this before, and he will feel its full power one last time.

 

Whatever this is – this memory, it’s obviously not natural. But it doesn’t feel like something Hanzo had meant to do. Jesse is sure the last thing the oni would want is Jesse inside his head. And so if the memory is tied to the book, if he can just – if he can just _break_ it somehow. He can’t change the past, but if he can change something in this false-present, maybe it will be enough.

 

So he struggles and yells as Hanzo keeps marching forward. He fights against the paralysis as Hanzo unsheathes his blade and the troops descend on an unexpecting rival army. He tries to hold Hanzo back as he slices through flesh with unrestrained effort. Bodies fall around them, are trampled, become mired in the soggy mud of Hanzo’s storm.

 

They are in a great tent, and before them stands a man. Not the General, but someone of high rank, still buckling his leather armor, reaching for his katana as Hanzo bursts through. Jesse can feel the memory is coming to an end, that they are reaching the climax of the night, and he struggles still harder.

 

Hanzo stops, and for a moment it seems like the storm outside stills as well. Jesse thinks maybe he’s done it, maybe this memory-Hanzo is coming to his senses. Except he is staring at the man before him, who is staring back in horror, and Hanzo says “ _Genji.”_

 

It’s not Genji, of course, but Hanzo seems to have gone mad in his despair. Jesse thinks he’ll kill the man, repeat the sins he’s already committed, but Hanzo falls to his knees instead. The man in front of them is regaining his senses, but before he can raise his blade, Hanzo pulls a dagger from his belt, holds it in front of him, pointed inwards.

 

“ _I am sorry, brother. May this curse end tonight.”_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There’s a sharp pain in Jesse’s gut, and for a moment he thinks he’s dead. Then he realizes, no, he’s alive. Not just alive, but back in his own body, and his eyes are closed.

 

When he opens them again, he immediately regrets it. He’s back in Hanamura, and Hanzo is nowhere to be found, but something is bearing down on him, a sharp clawed hand that may have once belonged to a human digging it’s talons into the meat of his gut. The breath that had been punched out of him returns, and Jesse’s arm is free enough that he can barely reach peacekeeper. He pulls the gun from his holster and shoves the barrel into the flesh of the creature that has him pinned. He squeezes the trigger and the recoil of the shot runs through his shoulder into the cold earth below him.

 

The creature falls away with a scream, and Jesse aims again, this time for the head. He shot connects, and what’s left of his foe crumples to the ground in a wet pile of slowly disintegrating flesh.

 

_Oh good,_ he thinks. _Zombies._ Then, _ah, shit._ Because of course there wasn’t just one of them. There’s a whole god damned army of them, and Jesse has more bullets, but not _that_ many.

 

He’d been somewhat prepared for this. The rumors he’d been chasing had been filled with mentions of the undead and necromancy, and he certainly knows how to kill your run of the mill necromancer’s reanimated minion. But he hadn’t been prepared to face them quite so soon, nor in nearly so many numbers. In the brief time he has to glance around before the next three are on him, it looks like every soul that’s ever died on these grounds has been brought back to life.

 

Whoever he’s chasing is no backwater, self-trained ‘mancer. And he may never get the chance to let the team back home know just how much danger they’re all about to be in if they don’t recall a full team as soon as they can.

 

Cock, aim, squeeze. Cock, aim, squeeze. Repeat and reload. Jesse’s fast, faster than the angry creatures crowding in on him, but speed won’t help when he’s this surrounded. He keeps a mental tally of how much ammo he has left, even knowing there’s little point. He tries to clear enough of a path to pass through – maybe he can brute force his way through to the back of the line.

 

But it’s futile, and as the last bullet leaves peacekeeper’s barrel, as he reaches for his knife, for anything, they press in on him like a wave. Any gap he’d made instantly filled with more and more.

 

Logically, he knows this is it, this is the end. But as he falls to the ground the grass around him crackles with electricity, an almost familiar energy that pricks at his skin and raises the hair on his arms. _Lightning_ , he thinks. _That’s what it feels like before lightning strikes._

 

But it’s more familiar than that. It feels like – like when the storm had come upon them in Hanzo’s memory. It’s hardly been a few minutes since he left his forced imprisonment in Hanzo’s mind, and the memory feels like a fading dream, but he remembers that feeling of raw power. Of control. Of nature bending to his – Hanzo’s – will.

 

The creatures above him are clawing at him, tearing through his clothes and scraping at his flesh. He can feel the heat of his own blood draining from him, and the pressure of too much weight above him as more try to clamor into the fray. Then he hears, in the distance, through the undulating mass covering him, Hanzo’s voice, clear and commanding. Angry Japanese that Jesse’s sure he couldn’t translate even if he had the time to think about it.

 

The electricity rushes through him, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s blue and white, brighter than anything he’s seen before, but it doesn’t burn at his eyes. The creatures above him – they feel it, though. Almost as one voice they scream out in a piercing cry that rattles Jesse’s ear drums, near leaves him deaf. They fall off him, not of their own will, but because they are being consumed by the lightning. Jesse’s head turns to catch the tail end of the light as it punches past, and it’s not just lightning. It’s got a form – two forms, twined together and consuming all in their path made of flesh, except Jesse himself.

 

_Dragons_ , his brain supplies, even as his gut churns and his eyes slip shut, from shock, from loss of blood, from sheer mental exhaustion.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~

“Van McCree.”

 

Someone is calling to him, and Jesse futilely tries to follow the sound, chase it. It’s a nice sound, a nice voice. He’d like to see the face it belongs to, if he could just open his damn eyes.

 

“Wake up, Van McCree,” the voice calls again. “I do not believe we have much time.”

 

He’d really, really like to do that, he thinks. Wake up. Awareness of his body is slowly coming back to him, and he feels his mind resurfacing, but it’s not quite enough.

 

“ _Jesse,_ ” the voice snaps – Hanzo’s, of course it’s Hanzo’s – and that’s it.

 

That’s all he needs. His eyes snap open, and he finds himself on his back, face to face with one very irate oni leaning over him. He should probably be pretty terrified right about now, but he’s not, and he’s not exactly complaining, either. He’s alive, it would seem, and in mostly one piece, though he can’t quite get his mechanical arm to move. That’s alright. That one’s fixable. Better than losing the other, too. And God be damned, Hanzo’s _eyes_. He’d thought they looked empty, white – _eerie -_ that first time he’d been close enough to see them. But now, so close, they glow like –

 

“Crystal,” he mutters, trying to focus on the face so close to his own.

 

“Van McCree?” Hanzo asks, confused and clearly very annoyed.

 

“Yer eyes. They glow,” he answers, a little nonsensically, but he’s finding it hard to keep one train of thought at the moment. “Liked ‘Jesse’, better, by the by.”

 

Hanzo growls, and Jesse feels it rumbling against his own chest. It’s a little like when he’d been a part of Hanzo’s memory, except much, much better, and he can actually move of his own free will.

 

“Then I suggest you do so, Cowboy,” Hanzo says, pulling away far too quickly for Jesse’s liking.

 

Apparently he’s saying all his thoughts out loud, now, but it’s been a damn strange night in his own head so he thinks he should be forgiven for that.

 

It takes effort, but Jesse manages to push himself into a sitting position, strength nearly giving out as he does so. “Hell of a beating,” he murmurs to himself.

 

“You must do it now, Van McCree. While I still hold control over my own self. You will not defeat me, otherwise,” Hanzo words are clipped, and Jesse can hear the struggle in his voice, a struggle to stay calm, to stay in control.

 

A struggle, it would seem, to not kill Jesse.

 

“I can hold my own, partner,” Jesse says, but the words are empty; Jesse knows if it came down to gun versus katana, Hanzo’d have him on his knees before Jesse could catch his breath.

 

He takes stock of the room around him. It’s dim, no lamp lit for feeble mortal eyes. But Hanzo’s eyes glow and Jesse follows the path of Hanzo’s gaze to the floor next to the bed Jesse is propped up on. He spots the gleam of ink on the cover – certainly no kind of ink Jesse’s ever written with – and as he reaches to grab the small book it feels like something is trying to hold him back, like spirits not visible to him are clutching at his wrist, his bicep, at the fabric of his coat and tugging, tugging, tugging.

 

Jesse tugs harder.

 

In his grasp, the leather of the cover burns at his fingertips, even through his glove. He hisses, drops it once before picking the book back up and forcing himself to clutch it tight in his grasp.

 

“I don’t – I’m not sure how to do this,” he says, looking at Hanzo.

 

Hanzo gazes back, steady. “You must destroy it, Van McCree. That is all you must do. I will handle the rest.”

 

Jesse reaches into his pocket and pulls out his matches. He wonders if Hanzo would mind if he smoked a cigar, in case it fails and this is his last. Instead, he stands on unsteady feet and takes two steps towards the center of the room. He wishes they were back in his own room where he’d have the materials to do this properly, but the furrow between Hanzo’s eyes, the slight tremor that runs through his body when Jesse catches his eyes – they truly don’t have the time to take this elsewhere. Not if they both want to come out of this in one piece, and Jesse is rather looking forward to spending some time with his demon companion without being threatened and intimidated. Or at least, maybe with a little more bark and a little less bite behind the threats.

 

He kneels down and places the book on the hard-packed earth before him, the flooring having long ago been destroyed and worn away. He fumbles a match out of the pack with one hand, strikes it to life against the sleeve covering his useless arm. The tiny flame flickers and sputters, threatening to extinguish itself before it touches the pages of the relic, but either through luck or some unknown magic of Hanzo’s, it catches against edge of the tinder-dry pages and nature quickly takes its own course. Nature, Jesse has found, rarely cares to be controlled by forces outside of its own, no matter how powerful they might be.

 

The book catches quickly, though there is a brief moment where Jesse is afraid it isn’t really burning at all, just absorbing the flames into its own power. Then there’s a sharp pop and the fire turns from a natural orange glow to a sickly, sparking green. It bathes the room in its strange light and Jesse looks over to see Hanzo, face twisted in agony, a groan on his lips as he falls to his knees.

 

Jesse reaches out towards him, nearly closes enough to touch, and Hanzo leans towards him before his eyes snap up and he pulls his body back, away from Jesse, with an unearthly keen of pain ripping from his throat.

 

“ _No_ ,” Hanzo says. “No. Do not touch me!”

 

Jesse rears back, as well, in shock, and he can hear a hissing, now, coming from the book, that turns to a piercing whistle, like a train barreling towards them. Hanzo groans, his hands falling to the ground before him, clawing at the dirt, muscles spasming wildly. He is a demon, an oni, nothing should effect him like this. He shouldn’t _feel_ like this, like a human, and all Jesse can do is watch in horror.

 

It takes great effort, but Hanzo crawls, drags himself to the burning relic. He reaches into his yukata and pulls out a dagger, one Jesse knows he hasn’t seen in person. Still, it feels like his own fingers are wrapped around it, tight, like for a moment he’s back in Hanzo’s memories. As if he has held that dagger every day since he could stand on his own.

 

Hanzo takes in a deep breath – _demon’s don’t breathe,_ Jesse reminds himself, but all the same – and brings the dagger up before plunging it back down, into the heart of the book, right through the flames that lick up his arms and catch at the fabric of his clothes. There is a scream – the book, the _book_ screams – and Hanzo looks up, eyes locking onto something Jesse can’t see.

 

“Moira,” Hanzo says, and Jesse cringes back because he knows that name too well.

 

Then the book crumbles, ashes on the ground, taking with it the flames and whatever vision Hanzo must have seen, because his eyes move to Jesse’s, before they shut and he slumps forward.

 

Whatever spirits had been clawing at Jesse before, trying to stop him from doing his job, have been sucked away with the powers of the book, because he is at Hanzo’s side whip quick, no otherworldly forces trying to pull him back. He kneels in front of Hanzo, moving so his shoulder catches the further slump of Hanzo’s weakened form. Jesse bears the full brunt of Hanzo’s weight, though the oni is still conscious, if just barely. He’s warm, too, solid. Jesse hadn’t expected him to feel so _real_.

 

“C’mon,” Jesse whispers. “Up. Lemme help you. It’s over.”

 

Hanzo laughs as Jesse slowly hauls them both to their feet, one-armed and off balance. It’s not a nice laugh.

 

“It’s far from over, Van McCree,” is all he says, though he is nearly docile as he lets Jesse lead him to the bed Jesse himself had just woken up on.

 

“Are ya’ gonna turn on me, then?” Jesse asks, letting Hanzo slide down onto the bed as gently as he’s able.

 

He’s got little strength left himself, and he lets his own body topple into the empty space at Hanzo’s side. He couldn’t make it back to the inn right now if he tried, and Hanzo’s words make him think there might still be things lurking in these halls that mean Jesse wouldn’t even make it off the castle grounds.

 

Hanzo is silent for so long that Jesse thinks he’s not going to get any answer. Thinks he’s going to have to assume the worst and hope that he catches his strength back before Hanzo, if it’s going to come down to a duel anyways, if they failed.

 

“No,” Hanzo says, finally, voice soft and exhausted and so very human in that moment it could make Jesse weep. “Not me. Not anymore. But there is much left to be done within Hanamura. And for you, I’m afraid, much to be done beyond.”

 

“Y’said a name, a bit ago. Moira. Where’d you hear that name?” Jesse asks; he doesn’t want to push, but he’s not sure it can wait.

 

“She appeared to me, when the curse was broken. I have seen her before, but I had forgotten. More likely, the curse made me forget. It was she that placed the relic. Hanamura is steeped in much misery. Many who have died here and died for the Shimada name did not go peacefully, and she wished to tap into that power, raise those spirits.”

 

Jesse can well imagine, after seeing first-hand what kind of restless misery must have been plaguing Hanzo himself for so many centuries. He wants to ask more, desperately wishes to ask about Genji, but he can feel exhaustion tugging him under, as strong and insistent as the spirits that had clamored at his person just a short time ago.

 

Hanzo must sense Jesse’s impending torrent of questions, as well as both of their need for rest. His hand reaches over to bridge the few centimeter gap and grasp at Jesse’s good wrist, squeeze tight enough to quell Jesse’s thoughts.

 

“Later, Jesse. Ask me whatever you wish later. For now, this room, at least, is safe. Rest.”

 

When Jesse wakes he is alone. Disappointment wells in his belly until he looks around, the setting sun lighting the room like an unwelcome reminder of the fire the night before. The sun. He’d slept straight through till evening, and of course Hanzo wasn’t there. He hadn’t yet seen him in the daylight, and wasn’t sure he ever would. He was no vampire, but Jesse had yet to meet a demon that sought out the light of day.

 

Exhaustion still sits heavy in his bones, and Jesse lets himself fall back into a light doze, unwilling to leave the comfort of a real bed to face whatever might be lurking in the corridors of Hanamura. Even if whatever lurking might be a certain Shimada. Jesse is at a loss. For the first time in many years he feels young and naïve, uncertain as to what the next move should be. Hanzo had said it wasn’t over yet, but he hadn’t seemed all that pressed to rush out and take care of whatever _it_ might be that was still left.

 

So Jesse lets the warmth of the fading day lull him back into a doze. He lets himself pretend, for just awhile, that he is back in time in Hanamura’s golden era, back when Hanzo was young – alive – and the energy within the stone walls was the energy of beating hearts and the hard toil of every day life. He pretends that he belongs here, in Hanzo’s bed, in Hanzo’s room, and lets himself imagine that when the door slides back open the face that greets him will be human, innocent of the ills that will befall its future.

 

When he again opens his eyes, it is indeed to the creaking slide of the door. Night has fallen, and in turn, Hanzo has reappeared. Jesse pushes himself up, sits on the side of the bed, and tips his head in greeting, not having the energy for much else. His hair falls into his face, tangled and unkempt after so much fighting and so much sleep. He runs his hand through it, grimacing when he gets caught in a particularly nasty snag.

 

From the doorway, Hanzo snorts in barely hidden amusement. “I believe you lost this in your struggle,” he says, and Jesse looks down at Hanzo’s hands to see his hat, somewhat crushed but still mostly intact.

 

“Well, thank the lord for small mercies, I suppose,” Jesse answers, forcing a grin that he fears doesn’t fool Hanzo in the slightest.

 

“Hm. I do not think we share the same gods, Van McCree.”

 

Jesse chooses not to respond, just watches as Hanzo moves slowly forward, glides almost, he’s so graceful. Hanzo places the hat beside Jesse on the bed and reaches out. Jesse manages to hold back from flinching as hands cup at the sides of his head, tilt it downwards so Hanzo can push the hair out of his face and slide his hands around to the back of his head. Jesse shudders, though not out of fear.

 

With a scrap of silk he’d had concealed in one palm, Hanzo pulls the mess of Jesse’s hair into a neat tail at the base of his neck, tying it in place.

 

“Are you hurt?” Hanzo asks, voice right by Jesse’s ear, and Jesse can’t stop himself from shivering again.

 

“Not as such that can be fixed right now. My arm’s a bit messed up, but that’ll take tools I don’t have with me. The rest of me is just scrapes and bruises.”

 

Hanzo pulls back to look at him with a disapproving glare, though it’s softened somewhat from the expression Jesse has become accustomed to over the past week. A thumb brushes down the side of Jesse’s face, and he winces as it catches against sensitive skin, the edge of a wound. He can feel the cut well up again with fresh blood.

 

“Alright,” Jesse concedes. “Maybe a bit more banged up than all that. But I heal pretty fast.”

 

“There is something very strange about you, Jesse Van McCree. What it is, I cannot quite place.”

 

Jesse’s let his eyes fall closed. It’s too dark for him to see proper, anyhow, and the hands on his person feel too nice to bother keeping them open, anyhow. He’d certainly not expected gentleness from Hanzo, of all the creatures and folk he’d come across in his day, but he won’t voice that thought lest it be taken as a complaint.

 

“Well, when y’ figure it out, let me know. Been trying to place what it is about myself for quite some time, and I can’t say as I’m any closer to an answer.”

 

Hanzo moves away, to Jesse’s dismay, but when Jesse opens his eyes it’s to see Hanzo standing at one of the small tables in the room, a handful of candles set up. He lights them, and Jesse lets himself feel a frisson of pleasure at the act. That’s all for Jesse – Hanzo doesn’t need any extra light.

“Is it over, then?” Jesse asks, when Hanzo turns back to face him; he lets his eyes linger over Hanzo’s form and doesn’t even bother trying to hide it.

 

If Jesse had been forced to describe Hanzo before, he’d have had trouble finding the right words. He speaks three languages fluently, knows more than a handful of words in at least a dozen more, but mortal language pales in the face of the demon of Hanamura. He is at the same time both beautiful and terrifying. His features are delicate, but there is a rockiness to him that makes Jesse think of mountains forming over millennia. Jesse had been awarded a brief glimpse into who Hanzo had once been, but the strict balance Hanzo had forced himself to hold tight on to when he was alive has been cast aside after death. There is nothing _subtle_ about him. What he feels, the castle feels, and so any who step foot on its grounds feel as well.

 

But now, for the first time, Jesse sees a glimpse of Hanzo’s weakness. He is pale, drawn, and Jesse almost fears that if he reaches out to touch his hand will go right through Hanzo’s body. He sees how much the curse of resurrection has taken its toll on him, how it saps the power from him. Perhaps it had been symbiotic, once, but the plague that Moira unleashed has clearly tipped the balance out of Hanzo’s favor.

 

“It is far from over,” Hanzo says, finally, staring right back. “But thanks to your aid I believe the castle is again under my control. I am once more under my own control.”

 

Jesse can’t help the grin that breaks across his face. He clutches at his chest in a mock swoon. “That a compliment to my skill? Be still my heart.”

 

Hanzo would never be as undignified as to roll his eyes, but if anyone could get the oni to do it, Jesse’s sure it’s himself. He thinks that’s at least a slight smile tugging at the edge of Hanzo’s mouth, though.

 

“Hardly,” Hanzo says.

 

“You tell your version, darlin’, and I’ll stick t’ mine. So if it ain’t over, then, what else do we need to do? It still feels like there’s something dark hanging over the castle, and not the kind of darkness I remember from that first trip.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head. “Your job here is complete, Van McCree. Moira’s curse has been lifted. But the spirits of the Hanamura are still restless, because I myself am restless. That is something that I alone must put to right, and it is something I must do alone.”

 

Jesse wants to argue. He wants to help, not just because it’s his job, but because he wants to help _Hanzo_. He’s grown attached, perhaps too attached, and it’s that acknowledgment to himself that makes his decision. _Jesse,_ he wants to shout. _My name is Jesse. I want to hear you say it again and again, and I want you to let me_ help.

 

He wants to argue, but he won’t.

 

He knows, too, that if he stays here any longer he’ll end up saying things they’ll both regret. Hanzo appears stoic as best he can, but here, in the heart of the castle, in Hanzo’s room, there’s nothing he can hide from Jesse. Jesse won’t be the one to take advantage of that.

 

Jesse sighs and heaves himself to his feet. His bones ache, and his stomach is gnawing at itself in hunger. His bladder is fit to burst. He’s got no clue if he’s even fully human, but his body sure reacts like he is in the most basic, instinctual ways, and this is no place for any but the dead.

 

“Well, alright then, partner. Suppose if I have to leave you to it, then that’s what I should do.”

 

He places his hat back on his head, pulls a stub of crushed cigar from his breast pocket, though he has the decency to wait until he’s out of Hanzo’s presence to relight it. He walks towards the door, stirring Hanzo’s yukata as he passes. _He’s so warm,_ Jesse thinks. _How can anyone so inhuman be so warm?_

 

He stops at the door and looks back. He can’t just _leave_. He can’t. “Hanzo, I-“

 

Hanzo steps closer and stops him before he can say whatever fool words were about to fall from his mouth.

 

“Jesse,” he says, softly, and Jesse could just die right there at that sound, die a happy man.

 

He brings one hand up to trace a thumb just under Jesse’s jaw, and draws a shudder from the touch. He pushes up at the brim of Jesse’s hat, just enough so Jesse’s eyes are no longer cast in shadow from the dim candlelight.

 

“Thank you, Jesse,” Hanzo says, touches their foreheads together with a tip of his head, and then brushes past to leave Jesse in the doorway, save them from any stupidity Jesse could muster and ruin the moment.

 

When he’s gone from sight – either swallowed by the darkness or just disappearing into the castle altogether, Jesse’s got no idea – Jesse finally takes his own leave. He lights his cigar as he passes under the great arch that heralds the boundary of Hanamura castle, and makes his way slowly back to the inn. He’d slept for a full day, but he somehow feels more tired now than he had even when he had first arrived, worn from weeks of straight travel.

When his head hits his pillow that night, he has time for one last thought before he’s pulled under completely by exhaustion. _Never did ask him about the damn dragons…._

_~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~_

 

 

Jesse packs up the few things he brought the next day, and writes down the details of what he’s learned and experienced as best he can. He spends the morning thinking on where to head next on the trail of Moira, now that he knows _who_ is behind this all. He maybe should have put the pieces together before now – they all should have, probably – but he hadn’t wanted to believe it could be a former comrade. The evidence is damning, though, and at least now that he knows who they are fighting, he knows better how to hone in on her scent and follow her trail.

 

He considers staying in Hanamura longer, but he knows he shouldn’t – his business here is complete; Hanzo had made that clear – and so he informs Shiro that he’ll be leaving at dawn the next morning. The innkeeper is as polite as always, but Jesse knows the town will be relieved at his departure. No more Jesse means no more meddling, and they can rest comfortably in their naivety that nothing is amiss.

 

And so, with his gear packed and ready, notes as complete as he’ll get them without further research, he sheds his clothes and takes one final dip in the warm, clear pool outside his room. It’s likely the last bath he’ll have for quite some time, and while Jesse isn’t opposed to the dust of the trail – rather likes it, actually – he’s likes to think he’s a somewhat civilized man deep, deep down. He can appreciate the finer things in life when they fall into his lap, even if he doesn’t often seek them out on his own.

 

Of course, he hadn’t ever thought Hanzo would be one of those civilized things to fall into his lap, near literally. Especially not after spending the whole damn day trying his hardest to not think of the demon.

 

Jesse’s just sunk into the hot water, reclined back with eyes closed on a long, tired sigh, when a voice he has almost grown accustomed to shocking him at the most inopportune times brings him sharply out of repose.

 

“I feel remiss in the way I dismissed you earlier, Van Mc- _Jesse_ ,” Hanzo’s voice comes from the shadows near the back wall. “Of the many things I have yet to put to rights, I believe bidding you farewell properly is among them. I did not want to miss my chance.”

 

Jesse should really, truly be used to this by now, he thinks. This is what, the third, fourth time the oni has snuck up on him? Maybe it’s one of Hanzo’s many charms, or maybe Jesse’s just getting old. Either way, he manages to suck in a little water before he heaves himself into a proper sitting position, coughing and spluttering in a very unbecoming way and aware that, once again, Hanzo has caught him out of his pants.

 

As Hanzo steps out into the little circle of light the lantern Jesse had lit earlier provides, the demon’s face is almost too stoic. Jesse’s sure Hanzo is biting back something witty and derogatory, and Jesse’s not sure if he’s more glad for the man’s good breeding and manners, or curious as to what humor it masks.

 

It takes a moment to catch his breath, and Hanzo perches delicately on the edge of the pool by Jesse’s side as he recovers himself.

 

“My apologies,” Hanzo says, finally, settling for mild and unimpressed. “I did not think you would let your guard down quite so… thoroughly, once your job was complete.”

 

Jesse scowls. “My guard is fine, thank you very much. But you’re damn sneaky, and you’ll forgive me if you don’t fall into my mind’s category of ‘big ol’ scary threat’.”

 

“You don’t find me threatening? Need I remind you of who decimated the army of unnatural creatures that were about to consume you as their first meal back on this earth?”

 

“Aw, c’mon now, darlin’. You know how I meant it. You don’t need to be insulting a man’s honor just because he doesn’t run away every time he sees you. I jumped, didn’t I?” Jesse soothes. “How about you let me start over? It’s a pleasure to see you, Shimada-san. I wasn’t gonna come back and grovel for a proper good-bye, but I promise you I’ve sure thought about it a time or two already today.”

 

He gives Hanzo his biggest, most innocent and appeasing grin, and tries to ignore how sleazy it must look sitting there completely nude. The water from the springs is clear as crystal, and with Hanzo’s night vision he probably wouldn’t even need the lantern to know what was underneath.

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrow, calculating. Maybe taking stock of how honest Jesse’s words may or may not be. Then he huffs and -ha!- rolls his eyes. Jesse knew the oni’d been holding back on that for appearance sake. Well, joke was on him. There wasn’t a soul, alive nor dead, with half a brain that could avoid rolling their eyes at Jesse Van Mcree for long.

 

In true Shimada fashion, of course, that’s about where Jesse’s read on the situation ends. It would seem that Hanzo had come to him just full of surprises tonight, though Jesse blessedly manages to avoid inhaling anymore hot spring at Hanzo’s next words.

 

“I can, perhaps, relate to that feeling. I find myself reacting to your presence in rather unorthodox ways, myself. May I join you, or shall I leave you to your privacy?”

 

Jesse’s certainly shocked at the offer, but he’s not stupid. He manages to school his own expression and tone so he doesn’t sound like a dog desperate for a bone – honor aside, that comes far too close to the opinion he’s afraid Hanzo holds of him.

 

“’Course, Shimada-san. More ‘n enough room for two.”

 

“Hm,” Hanzo gives him an appraising look as he stands to shed his clothing, and Jesse tries valiantly not to stare. “Were you not so adamant on a first name basis? Hanzo will suffice, though I imagine it’s too much to hope that you’ll not descend into your habit of coy pet names before too long.”

 

For a man of so few words, Hanzo’s giving even Jesse a run for his money this evening, and Jesse is eating it up.

 

“No promises, sweetness,” Jesse drawls as Hanzo slides into the small pool with him, off to the side so they can mostly face each other, but their knees still brush; it sends a little shock of thrill through Jesse’s muscles, and he can’t help thinking about lightning again.

 

Hanzo, of course, scowls, but he doesn’t make any move to put more space between them, or, god forbid, leave altogether. Jesse’s luck when running his mouth, it would seem, continues to hold out.

 

“There is nothing _sweet_ about me, cowboy.”

 

“Y’keep calling me cowboy. Dunno how you even figure that one - didn’t know they were a thing in your time, much less in your part of the world.”

 

“A phrase I believe I heard your… Father Reyes call you, on our first meeting. It seemed to irk you somewhat.”

 

“Ch, Gabe, huh? Figures. Guess you did remember me after all, then,” Jesse says, and tries not to let it show how much the memory of the Padre is one he’d rather not think about.

 

“Is the Father no longer in your company, then?” Hanzo asks, a bit to perceptive for Jesse’s liking, and hitting a little too close to home for what was supposed to be a nice little goodbye.

 

“Not as such. There’s other things I think I’d rather focus on, though, if y’ wouldn’t mind,” Jesse decides it’s time to take his chance, and if he’s going to get one last shot at leaving Hanamura on a good note, he’d be remiss to not at least try.

 

He reaches out his hand – the mechanical one, the one not in the water – and grabs at a stray lock of hair dancing free above one of Hanzo’s eyes. He twists it gently between his fingertips, gauging Hanzo’s reaction for a moment before dropping a few inches to cup at his jaw. He can’t feel anything under the silver prosthetic, but Hanzo’s gaze droops just a little – like a contented cat, still just a little wary.

 

“You could come a little closer, if you felt like it,” he adds, and tucks away in his mind the picture of the quirk of Hanzo’s amused mouth.

 

“Could I? I wonder what all you’re expecting from this farewell,” Hanzo says, even as he follows the gentle pull of Jesse’s hand, reeling him slowly in.

 

Jesse doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until Hanzo settles himself on Jesse’s lap, straddled in a very suggestive manner. He touches the corner of Jesse’s eyes and he opens them to see the oni so close he can barely focus on his whole face. Despite Jesse’s teasing words, though, and Hanzo’s particular placement, there’s no maddening rush of desire. Just the comfort of getting to touch – hold, hold _on to_ – someone he didn’t think he could have. Jesse is still trying to wrap his head around just how warm Hanzo is, how human he feels.

 

Like the other day, Hanzo tips his head forward to rest lightly against Jesse’s own. It occurs to Jesse that this week may be the first time Hanzo’s had actual contact with another creature in quite some while, so they sit like that for a long pause, just becoming accustomed to one another up close. When he nudges his chin up, it tilts Hanzo face, too, until their lips can brush together. Hanzo doesn’t fight it, follows the movement as a willing participant, and Jesse can’t help humming quietly in approval.

 

He feels a chuckle against his lips, more than he hears it, and he tries to chase Hanzo’s mouth as he pulls a few centimeters away.

 

“If you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Hanzo jokes.

 

Instead of pretending to snipe back, Jesse gives a playful growl and successfully recaptures Hanzo’s mouth. They spend long minutes just gently exploring, Jesse’s hands coming up to untie Hanzo’s hair, one threading through, the other grasping at Hanzo’s shoulder. He doesn’t plan on letting the demon move back from him again without a fight.

 

Hanzo doesn’t seem interested in moving back away, either, and as Jesse squeezes his shoulder a little tighter, Hanzo deepens their kiss.

 

It’s more of a good-bye than Jesse could have hoped for, and they pass much of the evening like that, trading innocent kisses and deeper ones in turn. Jesse’s skin is soft and pink from the water and the heat, from Hanzo’s heat, and his own, and the warmth of the spring. When they break off for air after a particularly thorough exploration of each other’s mouths, it’s late enough that Jesse is unable to stifle a yawn.

 

“Go to bed, Jesse,” Hanzo says, softly, lips grazing Jesse’s ear. “I must leave, as well.”

 

Jesse wants to say no. He’s man enough to admit he’s far from above begging. But Hanzo is right. Jesse needs to leave, early, and as tempting as it is to stay one last day and night in Hanamura, the things he’s discovered demand he stay as close on Moira’s trail as he’s able to. Already he’s sure the trail is going cold.

 

They rise from the spring and Jesse towels off, not bothering to redress before bed. Hanzo slips his own loose outfit back on and reties his hair, now delightfully mussed from Jesse’s ministrations.

 

Before Hanzo leaves, Jesse bends down to brush one last, chaste kiss across his lips, all Hanzo will allow before pulling back, putting some space between them with a hand on Jesse’s chest.

 

“Stay safe, Jesse,” he says. “Maybe our paths will cross again, one day.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Jesse’s travels take him all over Eurasia before he finally makes it back home. He follows leads as he finds them, always feeling two steps behind – close enough that he can’t bring himself to stop, but far enough that a feeling of desolation is constant in his gut. For every new clue he finds, every necromancied uprising he manages to quash before it destroys real lives, it still feels like he’s barely holding on.

 

His reports back home are short and far between. What he learns of importance he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing over so great a distance, when there’s no telling if it’ll make it to its destination. He’s filled two journals with his messy scrawl and poorly drawn diagrams, more than he feels he’s ever written in his life. Jesse may be a man of words, but rarely the written kind. He needs help, he knows, and he needs a real library and someone there who can help him sort through the archaic tomes, keep him on track.

 

And so he lets himself slowly be led back towards home, following what trails he can on the way. Moira’s plague is spreading at an alarming rate, but the closer he gets to headquarters the more concentrated it becomes. It’s obvious she’s most comfortable nearer to her own territory, and he’ll need to travel north and west once he’s regrouped. To Ireland, most likely, and he likes that idea even less than he had liked the idea of travelling across the entire Asian continent. The magic of the celts was nothing to be taken lightly.

 

He makes it home just as Autumn is peaking, the reds and oranges setting the hills on fire, and so unlike the spring pink of Hanamura’s cherry blossoms it makes him a little sick to think of it. He’d been content here, once, if not quite happy. But now he finds himself torn asunder. His thoughts had once pulled him across an ocean to the dusty American southwest, to the desert and all its wonders and dangers, challenged and comforted him at the same time, the dangers of the desert as reliable as they were extreme. Now, he finds himself thinking eastward, across another continent, across this entire damned landmass to the very edge and a little beyond. 

 

His return is uneventful. Lena throws her arms around him, of course, and drags a promise out of him to share a meal as soon as he’s reported in and rested. Jack – _Father Morrison_ – has all of McCree’s letters spread out before him, and the look on his usual stoic face says whatever Jesse is in for in the coming months will be as draining as the last.

 

It’s Winston that he spends the most time with, though, once he’s settled back in. More beast than man, Winston rarely ventures past the grounds of their small compound in the hills outside the city. He’s silent on where he had travelled in the years while they had all been disbanded, but the research he’s brought back and the books of magic and lore he’s ferreted out from lord knows where have been invaluable to their now much smaller library. He sits Jesse down for hours at a time, pulling details from Jesse’s accounts he’d never himself have thought important, until they are left with a map of Moira’s comings and goings, an account of her horrible magics that answer more questions than Jesse had hoped they could have answered.

 

Unfortunately, they raise just as many new questions, terrible in their implications. What will be the ultimate cost if Moira is left unchecked, raising an undead army, the likes of which no one has ever before seen? What balances is she shifting, that for so long they had all taken for granted?

 

The possibilities pound at the inside of Jesse’s head, his eyes dry and burning from staring too long at parchment and book. His hand cramps as he tries to answer each of Winston’s inquiries in as much detail as possible, and his body aches at just the idea of the travel he’ll be off on once again, far too soon it seems.

 

It’s near on three weeks after his return when Lena finds him, bent over a table, pen in hand and near ready to fall asleep on the priceless vellum he’s pouring over. The afternoon is growing late, though it’s by the dwindling candles and his internal clock alone that tells him this, deep as they are in the windowless catacombs of Overwatch’s research laboratory and Winston’s base of operations. He’s so unattuned to the world around him that he almost jumps straight out of his boots at the hand on his shoulder.

 

“Hey there, love,” she says, voice soothing and apologetic. “Never thought I’d see the day Jesse Van McCree turned scholar and academic.”

 

Jesse pushes himself away from the table, heavy chair scratching against the stone floor. He gives a big stretch and smiles at Lena, as sunny as he can mustered feeling as cooped up and bored as he does. “Y’know how it goes. Jack doesn’t want me just runnin’ amuck with no plan of action. Says I’ll just do more harm than good.”

 

Lena snickers and doesn’t even bother to hide it. “Well, I don’t imagine he’s wrong. You look ready for a break, though, and there’s someone outside you might want to come up for. I’ve never met him before, but it seems like he knows you quite well.”

 

Before Jesse can even ask who could possibly be asking around for him, she’s gone – raced right back up the stairs. He’s got a few ideas, none of them pleasant. But Lena hadn’t seemed worried so it’s likely not someone here for a bounty on his head. Probably not someone from America, at least.

 

He closes the books he was working with, marking a few pages and straightening his sad excuse for a pile of notes, more lines scratched out than not. More questions than answers, still, even with Winston helping him sift through his ideas and research. He doesn’t plan on coming back down tonight, and it’ll still be there in the morning.

 

The steps up out of the catacombs help stretch out the kinks in his muscles, but he’s still feeling the burn of sitting too damn long when he reaches the main floor of the old cathedral, the center of Overwatch’s headquarters. Home base. When he walks outside the sun blinds him for a moment, and he has to pull his hat down low on his brow and blink for a long moment before his eyes adjust. _Crypts and catacombs_ , he thinks for what is nowhere near the first time in his life, _should stay for the dead. Ain’t natural for a man to be down in one for so long._

 

“Van McCree,” Father Morrison’s rough tenor rings out across the courtyard, and Jesse’s head turns, following his voice; there’s someone next to him, but it’s still to bright and whoever’s visiting is half hidden behind Morrison’s larger frame, darkened by the shade of the awning they’re standing under.

 

“Padre,” Jesse greets as he jogs over, cigar halfway to his mouth before the man behind Jack steps out and Jesse nearly drops it.

 

“Jesse,” Hanzo says, still bathed in shadow but now utterly recognizable and -and _here_.

 

There’s a brief pause before Jesse can find his voice to answer, when he thinks he might be hallucinating. Maybe there was something growing on those old books that Jesse had disturbed, breathed in something he shouldn’t. Maybe he’s actually passed out down in the catacombs, slumped across a pile of parchment, dreaming this all up.

 

They both look at him while he gets his bearings and he decides that no, this is undoubtedly real. That is very much the undead head of the Shimada clan, an oni, standing in the light (well, shade) of day. Here in Italy. Right in front of Jesse.

 

Father Morrison gives him longer than he probably deserves before clearing his throat awkwardly. Jack has never been one for many words, and Jesse’s sure the other man is as much at a loss as Jesse is himself.

 

“Shimada says you invited him to join us,” Morrison says, finally, a little accusingly, and all Jesse can do is nod dumbly. Of all the times to lose his voice.

 

Jesse clears his own throat, so he can say, well, anything at all, really. There’s a thousand things he _wants_ to say, but he doesn’t think Hanzo would appreciate him saying any of them in front of the Padre.

 

“Yeah, sure did. He’ll be quite the asset, I imagine. Didn’t, uh, didn’t think you’d take me up on it,” he says, directing the last part at Hanzo directly. Now that he’s got the other man in front of him again, Jesse really doesn’t want to look away.

 

Hanzo catches his stare and doesn’t seem to want to look away, either. “I did not think that I would. After you left, I attended to my business as I said I would. But when I finished, and Hanamura was haunted no more I felt… I felt no desire to stay. I felt as though something were pulling me elsewhere, some other unfinished business, and as this was the only other place I could think that might be, I made my way here.”

 

“Unfinished business, huh?” Jesse asks, and can’t help the smirk that crosses his face.

 

Hanzo just huffs in response. “While I will not deny that I wished to see you again, Jesse, I do not think it is quite that. There’s something else, I think, something –“

 

Hanzo doesn’t finish his sentence, his gaze instead catching on something over Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse watches as his face turns from amused, to confused, to simply shocked, like a deer caught unaware in a field of hunters. He looks like he wants to run, but instead just trembles, unable to move.

 

Jesse turns to look over his shoulder, to see what caught Hanzo’s attention and shook him up so quickly. There’s nothing he can see that would be a threat, to Overwatch or Hanzo himself, just a courtyard with softly fallen Autumn leaves, waiting to be swept, and –

 

Oh. And Genji. Of course.

 

He hadn’t forgotten, not really. But the Genji he had seen in Hanzo’s memory had been different, truly young and alive, not the scarred, nearly inhuman looking man that had become Jesse’s best friend over the years. And it had all been such a blur, so hard to hold on to, that Jesse had never brought it up. After all, how could it be possible that _his_ Genji was also Hanzo’s, centuries after the fact. This Genji, though he might not look it at first glance, was absolutely human, living and breathing despite being held together by a bit of Angela’s rarely used magic.

 

Genji walks over to them, and unlike Hanzo and Jesse he looks unfazed by the unexpected meeting. He looks as cool and confident as ever, with the spark of excitement and youth that never left his eyes, even after the rest of his face was torn and rearranged by battle.

 

“Brother,” he says to Hanzo, only giving Jesse a brief glance and a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t look ready to believe what he’s seeing. Jesse can’t really blame him. They both look to Father Morrison, who looks just as confused, and quite a bit more on edge than he had before.

 

Genji holds up a placating hand before Morrison can start asking questions. “It is a long story, Father,” he says. “Allow me some time with my brother before you start your interrogation, and I promise we will both answer as much as we can. But you may add my voice of approval to Jesse’s in your consideration of Hanzo’s request to join our cause.”

 

It’s obvious that Morrison wants to argue, but either he’s not sure where to begin, or he’s just not in the mood to deal with all of this today.

 

“Fine. Come find me when you’ve… caught up. Van McCree, you come along with me to my quarters. I’ll start with you.”

 

Jesse scoffs. He’d rather go back and _read_ more than be chided by Father Morrison in his office. “C’mon, Padre, I don’t think –“

 

“ _Now,_ Jesse,” Morrison growls, and Jesse gives up, tucks his tail between his legs, so to speak.

 

“Alright, alright. Hanzo, I guess I’ll see you around.”

 

“Hm, I’m sure,” Hanzo says, still distracted and confused, though clearly less apprehensive now.

 

They leave the Shimadas ( _Shimada._ Genji Shimada. Jesse had never asked, always just known him as _Genji_ ) to become reacquainted and make their way up to the room in Morrison’s quarters he’s designated as his office. It’s tiny and cramped, with a single extra chair that hurts Jesse’s back in a way that makes him think it’s probably on purpose, to keep visitors away. Jesse is normally happy to oblige.

 

“Alright, Van McCree. That out there was… well, I don’t even know. Let’s start from the beginning again, shall we?”

 

Jesse sighs, and starts in on his story, _again._ He’d had an inkling it was going to be a long day when he woke up this morning, but he sure wishes he hadn’t been quite this right. Though, if it gets him Hanzo back in his grasp, he can hardly find it in himself to complain.

 

*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Both Genji and Hanzo, it would seem, disappear for the entire rest of the day. They aren’t at dinner, but Father Morrison isn’t, either, and Jesse silently wishes Hanzo good luck in dealing with that whole ordeal. He knows the Padre is going to relent eventually and let Hanzo join their little gang – there’s so few of them left, he’d be stupid not to. They need all the help they can get and then some.

 

By the time Jesse makes it to bed that night, he’s right sure he’s going to have to track the oni down in the morning. He imagines Hanzo won’t be spending too much time out in the light of day, but there’s far too many places to squirrel one’s self away in around the old seminary grounds. He’s sure Hanzo will find himself right at home with long, cramped hallways to haunt.

 

So it comes as quite a shock when he hears a soft knock at the big wooden door to his quarters. He’s just taken off his shirt, about to work on his boots, when he opens the door expecting to see Lena (the only one who ever really goes visiting) on the other side. It’s decidedly not Lena, he realizes, far too late to cover himself again as Hanzo eyes widen a little when he comes face to face with Jesse’s chest before snapping up to his face.

 

They stare at each other in awkward silence for a dozen heartbeats, a strangely comforting feeling Jesse is surprised to find. Though if Hanzo keeps catching him in varying states of undress, he’s bound to think Jesse’s doing it on purpose.

 

“May I come in, Van McCree? My… _brother_ was kind enough to point out your room on our tour, but he neglected to show me any place I could stay, myself.”

 

_You can stay more than just a night here,_ Jesse wants to say. Instead, he steps back and opens the door wider. “’Course, darlin’. We’re back to formalities so soon, huh?”

 

He’s rewarded with a light smile at his jesting, and he’s embarrassed at how quick he finds his cheeks warming in pleasure. Hanzo steps passed him, yukata brushing lightly against Jesse’s bare chest as he goes. The feeling and the scent of him – earthy spring rain, and something else entirely other worldly – brings memories bubbling to the front of Jesse’s mind. Things he’d been trying damn hard not to think about these past weeks since he’s been back and stuck researching, with nothing to do, it felt, _except_ think.

 

Hanzo sits down on the edge of Jesse’s bed, all too gracefully despite looking a little tense, as Jesse shuts the door and turns to look at him.

 

“Padre gave you the approval, right? I can find you somewhere else to sleep, if you’d prefer,” Jesse says, hesitant. “But if you wanna stay here instead, well, y’ know you’re more than welcome.”

 

Hanzo nods at him. “He did. The Father was rather apprehensive, at first, but it would seem your group is short on hands with much work to be done.”

 

He looks around the room, appraising. It’s sparsely decorated, since Jesse has rarely spent much time at headquarters since he was called back. But he’s got a few books scattered around that he’d tried to read and fallen asleep to, and his hat and jacket are slung over a chair in the corner. Hanzo’s eyes settle on the small table by the bed, where the scrap of cloth he’d tied Jesse’s hair back with after that strange, strange night sits, as innocent as it is all too telling.

 

Jesse wants to defend himself, say he just tossed it there and forgot about it, but he doesn’t feel much like lying right now. He just feels as exhausted as he has for months and months now.

 

Before he can open his mouth and say something stupid, though, Hanzo looks back at him.

 

“I would like to stay here, I think,” he says, deadpan, firmly and without a shred of indecision or embarrassment in his voice. “Though you should know well enough by now that I do not sleep much, and rarely at night.”

 

Jesse thinks he must be going crazy, because despite Hanzo’s monotone the words feel positively suggestive. He decides to just roll with it and kicks off his boots and toes off his socks before sitting down gingerly next to Hanzo on the bed.

 

“Uh, so,” Jesse says. “Genji’s your brother, huh?”

 

Hanzo raises a delicate eyebrow at him, and Jesse feels kind of like he might be the stupidest man on the planet right now.

 

“Yes, it would seem. I’m surprised you did not recognize him when you were forced into my memories.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t sound accusing, exactly, but he does sound slightly betrayed, and Jesse knows he’s got to clear that up quickly.

 

“I did, sort of. But it just… it just didn’t make any sense. I think my brain might have blocked some things out, wouldn’t let me make the connection once I was back to myself. I don’t rightly know, but I am sorry I didn’t think to say anything.”

 

Hanzo just sighs. “It’s alright, Jesse. I cannot blame you – I don’t know how I would have reacted myself, at the time. I do not think I was ready.

 

“Genji is, in fact my brother, though certainly not in the same body as when I had known him. I thought, at first, that perhaps he was like me. Perhaps he had been forced by fate to haunt this earth with no way to atone for his sins. But Genji was never truly guilty of any sin, not like myself. It would seem fate deemed to reunite us by reincarnating him in some form. Perhaps so we might finally together break the very curse that has torn apart our family for generations.

 

So, no, you hold no blame. But it’s been spoken of enough today, already. I should let you sleep, now that you’ve graciously offered me use of your quarters.”

 

Jesse has at least a dozen questions he’d like to ask, but he can respect Hanzo’s wish for now. “Y’ could do that, I suppose. Can’t say I’m feeling quite as tired as I thought I was, though.”

 

He tries to look innocent, but Hanzo is too smart for that. “Is that so?”

 

“You’ve caught up with your brother for the time being, and I’m sure you spent more time than anyone should have to with Morrison,” Jesse says, speculatively. “I’m thinkin’ it might be my turn, now.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t smirk at him, because Hanzo doesn’t ever smirk, period. But the lift at the corner of his mouth is pretty damn close, Jesse thinks, and he can’t help but lean in and place his mouth- right. there. If Hanzo’s going to smile at him all pretty like, Jesse doesn’t just want to see it. He wants to feel it, wants to _taste_ it. He’s pictured it on his own too many times and on too many lonely nights since they parted ways to be content just looking.

 

He feels the rumble of approval in Hanzo’s chest as he lets his mouth glide lightly across Hanzo’s cheek, to the curve of his jaw. He nips right below Hanzo’s ear, then again at the soft lobe before trailing his tongue up the curve and burying his face in Hanzo’s hair for the briefest of seconds.

 

When they’d been like this before – together, their guards down for each other alone – neither of them had been in the right place to push it any farther. Jesse had been weary, the travel and fighting too much to let his body respond as he had wished it could, give his all to another person and not be found lacking. Hanzo had been distracted, the turmoil of facing his personal demons weighing heavy on him.

 

Now, they are both facing an oncoming storm, the war that Moira and whoever she may be working with are trying so hard to start. But they are both here, both far more ready than they were months before. The antsy feelings that Jesse has been finding harder and harder to push aside now have an appropriate outlet, and he’s plenty ready to show Hanzo just how nice he can play, given the chance.

 

Jesse wants to take his time and undress Hanzo, but when he stands to finish disrobing Hanzo stands as well and takes care of the job himself. Jesse must look a bit put out, because Hanzo quirks an eyebrow at him.

 

“We will have time for many things, later. But perhaps, after so much time apart, a little rushing can be forgiven.”

 

It’s hard to argue that, Jesse thinks. He likes the sound of _later_. Hanzo hasn’t said yet how long he plans on staying, but he’s got more to hold him here than just Jesse. He’d feel jealous, except he can’t argue much with the results. He’s always been a results man, anyways.

 

He doesn’t just let Hanzo lay meekly down and wait for him, though. If Hanzo wants the rush of passion, Jesse’ll oblige him gladly.

 

When he captures Hanzo’s mouth with his own, he’s forced to admit his memory had been quite the poor stand-in. As thoroughly as he’d kissed the oni before, it feels like they’re starting right over from the beginning, in the best way possible. He places a hand on Hanzo’s chest and gives the demon a little shove, just enough to make his intentions known.

 

Not like he’d be able to knock Hanzo over, even if he was trying.

 

But Hanzo seems just as keen as Jesse to make up for lost time, and he goes willingly. _Later_ – the word echoes in Jesse’s head. They’ll have plenty of time later for Hanzo to show him just how little competition Jesse is for a demon’s strength.

 

Hanzo lays back on the bed, and Jesse follows, quickly, a little clumsy. He presses his body down on top of the demon’s, holding his weight off with just his elbows so they’re touching as much skin as possible – ankle right up to chest. Hanzo’s hands come up and wind into Jesse’s messy hair, pull him down hard and unyielding, to lock their mouths together again. The chaste final kiss of months ago is all but eclipsed by Hanzo’s eagerness, now.

 

Jesse kisses his way back to Hanzo’s jaw, this time letting his lips travel down the oni’s neck, sucking a kiss at the hollow of his throat. Hanzo’s hips cant up, his hands tightening their grip at Jesse’s skull, and Jesse feels his breath go hot and fast, his hips grinding down to meet the thrust, unable to find the will power to slow this down.

 

_Later_ , he tells himself again. Later, they’ll go slow. Later, Jesse will show Hanzo just how much Jesse missed him. But right now, with the promise of a release he hadn’t known he’d have the chance to experience with the one below him threatening to overtake him, he just lets himself feel.

 

“ _Jesse,”_ Hanzo hisses, below him, and Jesse picks his head up just long enough to see Hanzo’s eyes squeezed shut tight, mouth parted on Jesse’s name.

 

“That’s it, darlin’,” Jesse soothes, reaching down to take both of them in hand. “Go ahead ‘n let go.”

 

It doesn’t take much more than that for Hanzo, and Jesse finds himself following right after, the shudder of the body below his, the slick rush of heat that smooths the frantic pace of Jesse’s hand, it’s all too much after a day full of surprises. He buries his face in the soft skin of Hanzo’s shoulder, and Hanzo’s hands leave Jesse’s hair to tug at his shoulders until Jesse falls onto him completely.

 

Jesse makes a sound of disapproval and tries to move off, but Hanzo just quiets him and tightens his grip, settling in.

 

“Calm yourself, Jesse. Just enjoy this for a moment.”

 

It’s been a long, long time since Jesse’s had that kind of luxury, and he lets himself do as he’s been told without any more struggle. He figures Hanzo himself will get antsy soon enough, and they’ll want to clean up before Jesse, at least, falls into proper sleep for the night.

 

But for right now – there’s nowhere Jesse’d rather be, and it feels like he sure isn’t alone in that. There’ll be time – tomorrow, next week, next year – for all they’ve got to do, for all they get to do _together_. Plenty of questions to find answers to. More than plenty to set back to rights, with the way Moira’s ramping up her work.

 

This right here, though, it’s real, and for the moment, at least, Jesse thinks it’s enough.

 

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's that link again to Shevaara's awesome art work](http://shevaara-art.tumblr.com/post/177484916851/ohhhhh-im-s-excited-to-finally-share-my-piece)


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